The Anatomy of Hegemony
by CuttleMeFish
Summary: After WWIII, America and England procure a political union. But when England is ready for independence, both must fight through a virtual reality game that allows them to wage war against each other by day, while sharing the same marriage bed by night.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"Love is our response to our highest values."  
><strong>Ayn Rand<strong>

_Thursday December 29th, 2089_

He spent most of those hours of darkness in little better than nightmares, racked by coughing, choking frequently, shaking with the chill and the burning of fever. A pink measles-like rash broke out on him by midnight, and by daybreak he could finally feel himself sinking into a deep sleep. Even as he slept, though, England could feel himself growing weak with the cumulative piling up of horror and an overwhelming sense of solitude that seemed to pool near the pits of his stomach, propelling him into mewling sobs of anguish. Still, when he felt the heat of sunlight warm his face, he opened his eyes, stretching his arm out, only to watch in fascination as the contours of shade and light teasingly pranced between his knuckles and over the decimated walls of the compound.

The fog of his mind made everything around him a blur of colors; shocks of brightness like messages between synapses jolted his muscles.

He had a certain sense of surprise about everything. He was not exactly sure what day it might be, for example—perhaps Thursday, he thought. But it could equally have been a Friday, perhaps even a Wednesday. He wondered back to those days of his early infancy, before he could understand words and time, and tried to imagine himself at the beginning, too frightened by the concept of the end.

The low murmur of static made him shift for the first time, and he groaned, then, tried to laugh. At least he still had a voice. But a throb of pain brought him back to his reality, and he realized that he had no television, much less radio transmission. As far as he was concerned, he was likely dying, perhaps already dead and too unwilling to let go—a memory of a nation in the limbo of war. But the familiar static of technology continued to thrum through the room, and he began to believe that it was real, that perhaps there was something in the room calling him to civilization.

"England! – Arthur!"

America. America. Why couldn't his lips move again?—America! Silence. The scream of desire and pain so deep as to be only heard by the rocks near his feet; maybe he was dreaming.

He'd last truly interacted with America, after all, whispering sweet nothings against the lad's mouth, drinking in the smell of coffee, and open-prairies with iridescent blue skies, lost somewhere in the other's warmth even as the sky turned a ghastly orange, swirling in the anger of ash and fire above them.

Why couldn't he just be living in a memory?

Many people, back then, had already been reported as escaping from the cities, but those that remained had suffered no small amount of disgraceful panic.

Civilization had retreated, but at least it had carried its wounded along.

Inspired by doctors and nurses at their post, thousands had enlisted as volunteers. Nations had been no heroes—just symbolic memories, their identities released to the public as a way to boost morale and prevent society from spiraling deeper into anarchy. So much sacrifice from his people, only for them to become an afterthought…

England could still remember that he had dug his fingertips into America's coat lapels, pulling him in for the first kiss he'd ever laid on his bright cherry lips, chapped and stained with arid dirt—a sweet reminder of the implosion of the world. Then, he had watched the American be pulled into a helicopter by two military men, yelling and twisting to get a good look at the Englishman he was leaving behind:_ "I'm going to end it, England. I'm going to make sure it stops now and then I'm gonna come back for you, and we're gonna have our happy-ever-after, damn it! Don't you smirk like that you condescending asshole; I'm serious, so you better wait for me… you better wait for me, England!"_

"Arthur! Damn it—Arthur!"

"Sir—"

"Let me go! I'm going to find him—England!"

Whole areas of cities had been designated as hospital zones and points of concentration. All ordinary business had ceased, but his people had carried on, in the proud manner of their ancestors—perhaps in his proud manner.

The same that had prevented him from calling America, not even to say hello. But who said such things as 'hello' during times of war? – Phone calls were avoided; messages were sent in code; military plans were left behind—no one spoke in terms of the present, only in terms of the future, even if just as a way of masking the grimness of the day. What would he have said to America anyway? They had had no future.

He then felt the first pangs of hunger overcome the puncturing pain in his bones. Even as food had been rationed and a third of the population was dead, his people had kept on working, making sure that water, light, and power remained in most cities. To avoid intolerable conditions, which might have led to a total breakdown of morale, the authorities were enforcing strict regulations for immediate mass burials. How many mass burials would be needed now? Would he be tossed into a pit along with the rest?—He wouldn't mind so much, so long as…

"England…"

There was silence. And then he feared he really might have been imagining it all.

"America!"

"England!—Arthur, I'm here… oh my gosh, where the fuck are you? Keep yelling, damn it! England! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck…"

"A—America…! America, America, America, America, America…!"

And he continued, his mantra releasing him into light as he coughed, trying to turn his body to crawl towards a more visible area, but just as he was turning his eyes towards the sky, he felt a loud thump next to him.

"God damn it. Just—I knew I was going to find you. Artie, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so so sorry. I fucked it all up; I'm sorry. I'm—"

"Hush now, America," he coughed into the other's jacket, feeling his body shake once again, perhaps from shame at having stained the other red with his blood, "I never doubted you would—would find me, love. Now hush, America, don't cry."

America rubbed at his eyes with his free arm, cradling the English nation in his other arm. He watched as the other heaved out shaky breaths, one arm hanging limply by his side. Already his wrist was beginning to swell. "Artie, I'm—this is all my fault. There was a miscalculation and…"

Through sighing breaths, England managed to push out what he'd been wondering all along—ever since Sunday: "Is it over now?"

Tears pooled near the corners of America's eyes. He blinked, trying to push them away. "Yeah, Artie, yeah," he paused, gulping in hopes of recovering some strength to his voice, "I—it's over." He laid a kiss on the other's temple, feeling the rising bumps of a burning rash over the other's skin, "It's over. I swear to God it's over, Artie. I—I came here looking for you as soon as the peace treaty was signed; I—I, fuck, I wanted to be here sooner, but…"

"… you ridiculous fool," the other's lips curved into a smile, and he let his nose breathe in the faint smell of musk and sand from America's neck, settling a marginal kiss over his pulse, such a strong pulse, "it's over, America."

(England would always remember the taste of that pulse—the vibrating thrumming of cities still left standing, people skipping and running and carrying on… yes, carrying on. He would remember it when he would kiss America's lips, when their limbs would lay tangled together. And whenever America was asleep, England would press his lips to that pulse and remember the rebirth of hegemony.)

"A—Arthur…?" America's voice squeaked as he sniffled, hands quaking as they tried to remain calm, "England…?" He pursed his lips, furrowing his brows, "Y—you're just sleeping, right? England?"—He tried to roll the other awake, lightly shaking his shoulder.—"No, no, England, you're just sleeping." He nodded, scanning the area only to find rubble, and, in front of him, the face of a man with his eyes still openly staring at him, half his body charred by radiation, "Yeah, you're resting, you're—"

"Yes, America. I'm… I'm just resting."

"Just resting?" his voice begged for a promise.

And England delivered, "just resting, love."

"Man with all his noble qualities, with sympathy which feels for the most debased, with benevolence which extends not only to other men but to the humblest living creature, with his god-like intellect which has penetrated into the movements and constitution of the solar system—with all these exalted powers—man still bears in his bodily frame the indelible stamp of his lowly origin."  
><strong>Charles Darwin<strong>

He saw a rat attacking a smaller one.

The small one fought back, dodging desperately in an attempt at escape. Internally, America cheered for the small one, having, perhaps, always believed that he was the representative of the small and defenseless, all those that needed a Hero. The small rat seemed poised to succeed, finding a hole too small for the larger one. But then, a third and still larger rat appeared.

America reached for his gun, but felt a weak hand sprawl over his wrist, holding him back. Half-lidded green eyes settled on his, and he eased the tension in his shoulder, letting go of the gun.

The larger rat sprang upon the small one. A little pool of blood spread out from the torn throat as the largest rat dragged the body away with the one that had made the original attack scurrying close after.

"Why did you—"

England simply shifted, groggily turning his back to him, and falling back asleep. "You need to learn to act less out of instinct, and more out of habit."

"I don't understand," America pouted, staring still at the thin river of blood that trickled above dismembered bricks. He flexed his fingers, eyeing the small pit of fire he had put together after much work, "England, did you hear me?"

There was a ringing bitterness to his voice when he responded: "Who's the hegemon now, America?"

The blue-eyed blonde blinked, unsure of why it should matter, why the question should even come up when everyone was in such a position of pain and loss—he, too, among them. But he cleared his throat, frowning as he threw in another stack of figs to encourage the fire to burn brighter. "I think you know, or else you wouldn't be asking, England," he murmured in a whisper, almost ashamed.

"Again, then?"

"Yeah," America bit his bottom lip, "again."

The United States of America: hegemon. England gulped, loudly, feeling warm tears pool around the corner of his eyes—the jealousy of his entire being converging into hate and anger, because as much as he loved Alfred, everyone wanted hegemony, and no one loved a hegemon.

England had once been a global hegemon, but the global system always loved devolution, and in the eternal cycle of great power politics, England had lost his hegemony to America, though not immediately. For the first early years, he had felt like a big brother again, perhaps only with more love in his heart this time, for which he could blame Arthur, and together, they had built a different empire—capitalism, the international political economy. No love child had ever existed as sweet for two nations: an entire international regime. But as the years passed, England lost his relevancy while America did not.

Years of mistakes, impulsivity, rash actions—all in the name of good intentions—all of it, left America dry, and as all hegemons are bound to experience through their moral order experiments, he lost his strength. They'd noted it once, together, and then never spoke of it again. There was no new hegemon—the international system was not fertile for it, and it was assumed hegemony, mischievous love-child of power and morality, had finally been put down for a nap.

But even now as England lay next to America, he could feel it in the air.

"I mean, I don't have my strength back or anything. I—I couldn't even move you from here without some struggling," America hiccupped, hiding his face between his legs.

"Is that right?" England coughed, "I thought perhaps you'd been told you couldn't take me from my land. That would be invasive, wouldn't it, America?"

"Ah," America's head snapped back up in terror, "w—well there's that, too, but…" He looked away, cheeks a blazing red, "they said they'd bring in a team; the United Nations is back in working order. We're getting missions together for a lot of countries; I told them here first. But I'm not leaving you alone, Artie, I'm—"

"As I said," England interrupted and rubbed at his eyes, hiding his face in the shadowy corner of his elbow, "you'll need to learn to act less out of instinct, and more out of habit—including with your favoritism. You weren't very good about it the first time, America. Perhaps I'm partly to blame. You and I—both of us—we created the international regime your first time. Maybe it's best you will be alone this time." He let out a racketeered breathe, "Y—you should do things differently this time. Be selfish for once, America. Focus on yourself. Don't be quick to always feel as if you need to be the world's hero. You were always too impulsive, but especially during your years as a hegemon. No one ever appreciates, much less loves the hegemon, no matter if the road to hell he paves is based on good intentions."

There was much tension in the air, thick like mud, and America was almost afraid of having to waddle through it alone in search for England's own good intentions. The many decades they had spent dancing around each other, pretending not to love each other between insults and angry comebacks, all of it, he'd hoped it would end, and yet, here he was, being slapped in the face with the knowledge of the power he had once possessed and always wanted back.

He had almost expected England to be proud, to be excited by the prospect of reclaiming the world together and yet…

America smiled, breathing slowly through his nose to keep his voice from cracking from the pressure mounting inside his chest. He grabbed hold of England's hand, pressing it lightly, "well," he gulped, hard, "you love me, don't ya, England?"

England pulled his hand away. "No. As a dying country, I cannot love one being reborn."

"N—no…?" – his chest caved in from the pressure, and he could feel his hands turning into fists, almost ready to punch the other, but then he saw England move, slowly shift onto his side to stare up at America from the ground. "Artie, that's not fair. England, I—I lov…"

"—But I will always love Alfred," England sniffed, cupping the other's cheek, "I was never a very good mentor to you, America. Shush, lad, and let me be honest; this might be the last time I ever am. I did not love you at first, America; as a country, I loved many other colonies far more than you—they were more prosperous, needed less investment, gave me far greater economic freedoms. But as a man, I only ever cared for my little Alfred. There is a line drawn among nations between who we are as nations, and who we are as people… and sometimes I fear I never quite taught you that distinction."

"England…"

"So, Alfred, if you're going to say you love me, then do so. But know that it is not England that returns your love, but Arthur."

"I don't understand; why are you always saying stupid things I can't understand and that you probably don't even mean?" America sobbed, letting his fingers dig into the other's clothes, pulling him with his renewed strength. Both stopped, eyeing each other momentarily—and then there was a sudden recognition: America's strength, after years of having disappeared, was faintly returning.

England smirked, "Well, lad."

"No, no, no… I don't want it again…"

"Now," England cupped America's other cheek, finding comfort in the way his body was half-suspended by America's fingertips—all that strength, only in his fingertips, "you and I both know that's a lie, America."

_There_ was hegemony.

"Until politics are a branch of science we shall do well to regard political and social reforms as experiments rather than short-cuts to the millennium."  
><strong>J. B. S. Haldane<strong>

**United Nations Security Council ****  
><strong>**November 30th, 2090**

The meeting was called to order at 8.05 a.m.

**Adoption of the agenda **

_The agenda was adopted._

**The present condition and future of the United Kingdom****  
><strong>

**Report of the Secretary-General on the ****  
><strong>**United Nations Integrated Mission in ****  
><strong>**the United Kingdom (S/2090/1563)**

**The President:**I should like to inform the Council that I have received letters from the representatives of Australia, Canada, New Zealand, and Portugal, as well as from the human personification of the United States of America, in which they request to be invited to participate in the consideration of the item on the Council's agenda. In conformity with the usual practice, I propose, with the consent of the Council, to invite those representatives to participate in the consideration of the item, without the right to vote, in accordance with the relevant provisions of the Charter and rule 37 of the Council's provisional rules of procedure.

There being no objection, it is so decided.

_At the invitation of the President, Mr. Alfred F. Jones (United States of America) took a seat at the Council table; the representatives of the other aforementioned countries took the seats reserved for them at the side of the Council Chamber._

**The President:**In accordance with the understanding reached in the Council's prior consultations, I shall take it that the Security Council agrees to extend an invitation under rule 39 of its provisional rules of procedure to Mr. Arthur Kirkland, Special Representative of the Delegation and Human Personification for the United Kingdom. It is so decided. I invite Mr. Kirkland to take a seat at the Council table.

In accordance with the understanding reached in the Council's prior consultations, I shall take it that the  
>Security Council agrees to extend an invitation under rule 39 of its provisional rules of procedure to His Excellency Mr. Daniel Kristoff, head of the delegation of the European Union to the United Nations.<br>It is so decided.

I invite Mr. Kristoff to take the seat reserved for him at the side of the Council Chamber.

The Security Council will now begin its consideration of the item on its agenda. The Council is meeting in accordance with the understanding reached in its prior consultations. I wish to draw the attention of Council members to document S/2090/1563, which contains the report of the Secretary-General on the United Nations Integrated Mission in the United Kingdom.

At this meeting, the Security Council will hear a briefing by Mr. Arthur Kirkland, to whom I now give the floor.

**Mr. Kirkland:**Thank you, Mr. President, for the opportunity to introduce the report of the Secretary General (S/2090/1563) on the United Nations Integrated Mission in the United Kingdom (UNIMUK), covering the period from 03 January to 30 October 2090.

At the outset, I would like to pay special tribute to Mr. Alfred F. Jones, my dear colleague and friend. He has made several important contributions in advancing the causes of peace and stability in the United Kingdom, and for that, and on behalf of my people, I thank him.

As the report notes, the security and political situation has finally stabilized, allowing State institutions the space to focus on the country's longer-term war-reparation challenges, many of which, as the report states, we are unlikely to meet under the strains of our current budget deficits. This can be observed in the political debate, which has generally moved beyond backward looking discussions on how to move past the events of the perhaps too recently ended war, to forward-looking discussions on how to build on the gains made and ensure the future prosperity and stability of the United Kingdom. This trend, thus far, has not been much affected by the resignation of Prime Minister James Wright, or the indictments recently prepared against two members of his Cabinet.

Many plans, strategies and institutions have been developed with a longer-term focus in mind, including a new package of national security laws and the draft of the required Strategic Development Plan. Both are critical initial steps on the road ahead; however, their implementation will require a sustained momentum in efforts to tackle systemic, institutional and political fragilities, all of which are challenges currently faced by the United Kingdom.

In hopes to not waste the Committee's time, I should like to primarily state the reason, perhaps, as to why we are currently meeting in session.

Though we have been greatly helped by much international aid during this time period, it has been decided by the government of the United Kingdom that the best option for the continued growth and development of its member countries is to provisionally dissolve so as to best serve the needs of the people.

I.

I'm sorry. I can't. I'm really sorry. I just can't continue the briefing.

**The President:**Mr. Kirkland, I thank you for your briefing; if you are finished, then I will now give the floor to the representative from New Zealand.

**Mr. Jones:**Hey, it's obvious he's not done. Give him some time. It's hard having to admit your country has to disband. I know for all of you, that's just like seeing a country become a bunch of tiny countries, but for him, that's like, his brothers died, and sure, he didn't like them, but they were still his family.

**The President:**Mr. Jones, I must ask you to practice absolute decorum and wait your respective turn, else I will be forced to have security escort you off the premises. I now give the floor to the representative from New Zealand.

**Mr. Barton (New Zealand):**In an act of solidarity, the delegation from New Zealand would like to yield its time to the United States.

**Mr. Jones (United States):**Since one of my guys is already sitting at the front, I'm going to assume he's referring to me. Good morning everyone, my name is Alfred F. Jones and I am the United States of America. I'm sorry for my informality, but I didn't actually plan on giving a briefing, though I'm glad to do it. As we all know, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland has historically been a committed and well-respected member of the international regime. World War III has wrecked great devastation upon all nations, but for a previous super-power, one that has recently had to lose its seat in the United Nations Security Council, and a half-destroyed nation, it is particularly difficult to overcome the possibility of becoming a failed state. Now, everyone knows that the United Kingdom is not going to become a failed state, but it will need all the help it can, and it cannot retain its union, so it must opt for devolution. Well, I have another option. And it's not one that Arthur's going to like very much, but it is an option that I would like to present for possible consideration by this committee: I, Alfred F. Jones, the United States of America, would like to request the permission of this body to acquiesce the United Kingdom and absorb it as part of the United States.

**Ms. McCullough (Canada):**This is the level of favoritism that the delegation from Canada is here to counter. This delegate, for one, has the full weight of her government backing the expansion of both military and economic aid to the United Kingdom for an indefinite period of time with the hopes that we can prevent the expansion of the United States of America during this great period of strife. The absorption of an entire country, especially one with a long legacy of sovereignty and democracy, by another, would leave behind a precedent that could dangerously tip the balance of peace the world is currently experiencing. Should this body grant any consideration to Mr. Jones' proposal, it would be to allow the United States of America a blank check to invade any country it deems in need of extreme aid.

We stand in solidarity, and against the militarization and invasion of a country…

**The President:**Decorum, delegates. Mr. Jones still holds the floor.

**Mr. Jones: **Wait a minute, I'm not talking about invasion—this would be fully consensual! I know no one in this room is happy that the United Kingdom has to disband; I'm not happy about it either, but the international community cannot pool all its funds in the defense of the United Kingdom. There are many nations in need of reconstruction funds, which is why my proposition works best—it takes this one country out of the equation, no one has to worry about it anymore, and efforts can be maintained to help support the other countries that still require every single little bit of help we can provide. I have nothing else to say. I mean, I'll open it up for questions, but I don't think that's how it works here, right?—Maybe I'm thinking about the General Assembly.

**The President:**Thank you, Mr. Jones. I now yield the floor to the representative from Canada.

**Ms. McCullough:**Completely base and not even deserving of consideration. This delegation would like to point out that the nations of Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Portugal have been important members of UNIMUK, and have consistently reported the great strides the nation is making. The concept of devolution saddens everyone greatly, but such a matter should not be exploited by countries like the United States to be taken as an invitation to promote neocolonialism across the globe. What country will come next? – Perhaps Germany? Or maybe it will be Norway? More countries than the United Kingdom experienced great tragedies. Certainly, none were hit by a hydrogen bomb, but none of them would consider a proposal the like Mr. Jones has made. Thank you, Mr. President.

**The President:**I have received a request from the delegate from the United States to address the accusation from the delegate from Canada. Request has been granted. The delegate has 30 seconds.

**Mr. Jones: **I feel like the delegate from Canada is not adequately representing Canada. Ms. McCullough, do you know how much aid has gone to Canada from the United States? – How much of that money is indirectly funding UNIMUK? One thing is to say my proposal shouldn't be up for consideration, and another is to call me imperialistic. I am a country that stands for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. There's no need to insult me. Let me just add that this would all be on a provisional basis.

**The President:**Thank you. I now give the floor to the delegate from France.

**Ms. Venesque(France): **The Republic of France would just like to extend a courteous thanks to the United States for its unconditional aid to all countries in need, but would like to point out to the rest of the countries currently represented in this body that we are here to discuss UNIMUK. This body has no business interfering with the state of affairs of the United Kingdom should it choose to disband, much less should it choose to join with the United States in a political union. The only time the UNSC would be able to intervene would be if the United States invaded the United Kingdom. On that note, we would further encourage the United Kingdom to reconsider its plans for devolution as such a measure would make the implementation of reforms more difficult. While we concur that a more localized approach to addressing post-war reparation and reconstruction should be implemented immediately, the rise of many different governments will make it difficult for this body to aid it fully—a centralized government is best to counter any possible anarchic tendencies that might stem in the system. I yield the rest of my remaining time to China.

**Mr. Wong (People's Republic of China): **This delegate would personally like to hear from the United Kingdom. We are here as a forum to provide possible solutions to a member nation that is on the verge of becoming a failed state should it choose to divide. On our part, the PRC would like to point out that it has given substantial aid to affected countries of Asia and certain member of Europe, among which is the United Kingdom, but we cannot for long continue to subsidize the United Kingdom, especially now considering its sudden desire to devolve. The very statement made by the delegate completely counters any signs of stability in the report. We would like to set a vote in motion after listening from the UK delegate and perhaps reconvene at a later date. There are several other pressing issues, and given that three of the current UNSC voting nations are at odds, we will not get a unanimous vote and have little opportunity to contribute to the discussion. We should move the agenda to the current situation in Japan.

**The President: **Thank you both. At this point, based on an executive decision, this body would like to hear from the United Kingdom. The floor is yielded.

**Mr. Kirkland: **I fear that I am not in an emotional position, much less a political one, to comment on what should be done in regards to my country other than our decision to devolve. I am deeply concerned by the recently made comments that aid would be withheld by any nation should the United Kingdom finalize devolution. Sanctions over governmental decisions for the betterment of a nation's current crisis are unfounded and would be detrimental to our continued growth, thus pushing us to accept the offer from the United States, instead of helping us avoid it.

**The President:**At this moment, are there any pending motions on the floor. Yes, the delegate from Portugal is recognized.

**Ms. Silva (Portugal): **Motion to close the speakers list in order to enter voting procedure—over whether to close the agenda.

**The President: **I will require two speakers for and two speakers against. Speakers for: Portugal, China. Speakers against: no speakers against? Then the motion automatically passes. We are now in voting procedure.

All those in favor of closing the agenda. All those against.

The motion passes with a two-thirds majority. The agenda has now been closed. Thank you delegates. We will reconvene at a later date to discuss a future agenda.

"Character, in the long run, is the decisive factor in the life of an individual and of nations alike."  
><strong>Theodore Roosevelt<strong>

"Hey England, hey, wait," America ran out of the room, holding onto his many binders, trying to catch up to the shorter blonde and his delegation. "I said wait!"

Slowly, England turned around, pursing his lips into a taut line. "America, I'm really not in the mood at the moment."

"I know, listen, about what happened in there, I just wanted to say that I'm not giving up on this."

"I wish you would. Don't you remember even one bit about that conversation we had in December?"

"We've had a lot of conversations, England," America grinned, chuckling in an attempt to ease some of the tension in the air. "I don't remember half of them."

"I told you to be selfish, America. To worry about yourself for once. It's obvious you didn't listen to me, else you wouldn't be shooting your money every which way as if you had a toy cannon you were just dying to use," England huffed, turning on his heel to walk out of the crowding hallway.

"Hey, hey," America barely grabbed his wrist, "what are you talking about? – In there, I—"

"Stop fighting for a dying nation, America. There's nothing you, or anyone can do at this point. I've accepted it, and so should you—if you have any respect left for me. Now good afternoon, America; I will see you tomorrow at the General Assembly."

America dodged past a crowd of people, trotting until he was able to slide in front of England, and with furrowed brows, he let both his hands fall on the other's shoulders. An array of thick binders fell on the ground, and England had to jump around to avoid them hitting his toes. America cleared his throat, trying to ease the tension on his fingers, fearful that he might break the other's bones in his carelessness, and along the way, he focused his blue gaze on graying green. "I am being selfish, England. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for me."

The shorter blonde blinked, unsure of what to say, his lips dry and his throat burning. "A—America…"

"Now, like I said: I'm not giving up, Arthur, so you better not give up either."

With that, America kneeled on the floor, picking up his many binders, watching as England's legs walked around him. And when he looked up, he saw England looking back.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter ****Warnings:**Nations being imperialistic; mentions of nuclear post-apocalyptic alternate universe; possible OOCness in the name of political science! Did I mention HEGEMONY? Ah, allusions to very bad possible actions from our favorite American (or just plain cognitive dissonance). Sad orphans. EU-marriage. Quote abuse... again.

**Author ****Note:**Thank you to everyone that commented. I'm sorry to not have posted this up sooner. I have up to Chapter 5 written for this story, but I just can't seem to force myself to upload all the chapters yet. I write online a lot, but for some reason writing about hegemony in the Hetalia fandom is a bit intimidating, you know? Especially being such an unknown writer in this fandom... This is probably the chapter I was least happy with, but I can't bring myself to change it either… again, comments are always really appreciated.

Also, I want to apologize in advanced if the writing looks bulky to some of you. Some have complained that the paragraphs seem too square, or too long? If that was in regards to the UNSC transcript, then that's because I formatted that in the way a _real _UNSC transcript is formatted, and I'm afraid that's pretty bulky... but it was in the hopes of creating realism. Obvious fail on my part. Otherwise, my style for this story involves long paragraphs. I'm sorry if you don't like it. I don't know how else to tell this story.

But, my final point is that this website isn't a very good place for the formatting I need for this story, which requires spacing as pauses and yeah...so my apologies for the dots. It was the only way to get in that spacing.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

"We are waiting for the long-promised invasion. So are the fishes."

Winston Churchill

_December 20th, 2090_

When Canada calls, America doesn't pick up.

The room is dark. The dimness of a curved lamp barely spotlights the maps between his arms, only touching the shadowing creases of the piles of papers on his desk. He's resorted to hanging his shame on the walls—with nails and sometimes gum, because now he's too tired to do anything other than drop his head on his desk and read over briefs, proposals, transcripts. His hands shake—a reminder that he's yet to have his mandatory tenth cup of coffee for the day. He should get his fix soon, unless he's willing to sleep, but he's not going to. Not yet, anyway.

"Sorry, Mattie," he whispers, callously drawing circles over the map—bright red ones, concentric and symmetrical, reminding him of target practice. He really does only have one shot left. But it'll be enough.

Yes, enough.

Or maybe he just hopes it will be.

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When France calls, America knows that it's really Germany on the line.

It's a rash whisper, harsh and breathless, but he curses the EU-marriage. Germany and France don't love each other, but they're married. America can't understand why if he loves England and England loves him, they can't marry.

Perhaps he will never understand.

The world is probably just jealous. Yes; he lulls himself back into a comfortable ease and resumes reading an old Congressional transcript: _the world must be jealous._

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When North Italy calls, America picks up, and then hangs up the phone, not once pressing the receiver to his ear.

He already knows that the Italy brothers are preparing an early Christmas party for England's _children_, and even though he has already filled every closet of his home with enough presents to spoil a village worth of kids, he can't break his concentration to RSVP, not even for ever-cheerful North Italy.

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(_They're not really your children, England_.

America makes the mistake of saying this during a United Nations meeting.

The air is tense when he says it, and he is angry—angry because in the middle of his speech over the future of the United Kingdom, England stands and yells at America for his lack of tact and over his little respect for the concept of national sovereignty.

_National sovereignty?—For an almost-failed state?_

America hears the whispers, he hears them and is loathed to punch South Italy in the face, but he looks away, ready to appease England.

But then, the older nation leaves the room.

"Where'd he go?"

"Cher Angleterre is prob'bly che'king on les petits enfants," France informs America, fretting over the now wrinkled arm of Germany's suit jacket. He tisks disapprovingly, and America is certain that France must have personally ironed Germany's ensemble, perhaps spraying perfume along the way like a good housewife. America is surprised that France doesn't tell North Italy to stop clinging to Germany, though; instead, France smiles, petting the Italian's head, "Tu sais, 'e is a parent maintenant, Amérique. England's orphanages are having a rough time."

When England returns, he excuses himself. And America can't hold the words in because he's angry to the point of nausea, his stomach wretched with guilt, and the words just come, tumbling out like throw up—dark, swirling, just everywhere, everywhere. No one can breathe.

"You shouldn't leave a meeting just like that. It's not like—they're not really your children, England."

But England turns to face him, ever-poised, and with a soft smile sits down. Maybe it's a grin—the curl of the other's lips is a bit too high for his liking. America's not sure. That bastard, always grinning at him. "If not mine, America, then whose?" his voice is all suggestion. "Certainly not yours."

No one mentions England's orphans again. But America can hear the whispers, and they drive him mad with guilt.

_Not an accident._)

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England already knows he'll be there; even if he hasn't told him personally, or written to him, he's sure England knows because America can't stay away, and won't anymore. He hasn't seen England in weeks.

This is his one shot.

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When the phone stops ringing, he leans on his elbows, taking off his glasses to rub at his bleary eyes—everything's a blur, even the bright little red light flashing over and over: _Message, America, message! America, America, pick up!_

He knows there's a message. There's always a message. And it's never from England, which is a shame, because in silent, perpetual wait, America keeps thinking, and the more he does, the less he begins to think _it_ was an accident.

But that's the problem with miscalculations, isn't it?—They can be purposeful.

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"Mr. Jones? I'm heading out for the evening now, but I wanted to drop by the latest report from the UNSC by your desk first. Can I come in?"

"Yeah, come in," he sits up, pressing his back against the back of the chair with so much tension that when Lauren, the pretty red-head that works for him, the one that reminds him of Mary Jane from the old Spiderman comics, pops her head into the room and flicks on the lights, he feels like he might break. "What d'ya have for me, Lauren?"

He's cheerful, but she knows better, and with short, curtailed steps, she bites her bottom lip, dropping the file gently. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones. I really thought that maybe, this time, I mean. I already have a team prepping another proposal for the next meeting. I can—"

He opens the file, disinterestedly flipping through it. A short smirk spreads over his lips as he hands her the rejection letter: _Oh sweet, naïve America—here's a fuck you from all of us._

Maybe it doesn't say that. But that's just details. Details, details, he can afford to paraphrase.

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(America will never admit he can't read the atmosphere. So, sometimes, in his dereliction, he must inject meaning and tension and panic to things—because never was there a hero born without panic, and never was there a hegemon needed without tension.)

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"Will you hang this? Over there. The wall," he wheels his chair around, looking out towards the sky through the foggy window. He hears her making her way to the wall, making surprised noises when she sees them gum, the sound of a whistling breathe as she tries to re-arrange papers, and he can tell she's uncomfortable, or maybe she's sad?—he doesn't really care.

All he can do is look out the window and blink. He sees the blazing of a shooting star—a spit of fire like a missile blasting across the thick velvet of night—in the endless, painful, garish beauty of nature when it has been defeated, and he blinks, once, twice, more.

He must be going insane.

There haven't been stars for months.

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(A tiny voice in his head mentions casually how very much like an ICBM the ball of fire looks. And then, perhaps to drive him mad, whispers: _not an accident._)

* * *

><p>"What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans, and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty or democracy?"<p>

-Ghandi

* * *

><p><em>December 22nd, 2090<em>

He has so many children now.

"_Scusami_, big brother France," North Italy scurries around France, a steaming pot of freshly mixed pasta in his arms and a bright, white chef hat propped stylishly on top of his head—his unruly curl ever visible and bouncing.

Behind him, South Italy scowls trying to shake away a few children trying to reach for the cookies on the warm platter he carries. Germany simply tries to keep up, cradling a bucket of potatoes in one arm even as he propels himself forward with a cane held by his free hand.

"Ve~ England," Italy stops, the two others barely missing him in their sudden halt, "the _bambinos_ are so cold they're beginning to turn purply-blue; maybe you can make it warmer, _si_?"

It is very cold. And there's so much hope in Italy's eyes. Maybe that's where the stars left to make their home.

England is aware that his nation is experiencing one of the coldest winters to date, mostly a man-made result of the detonation of the bomb, which had shot enough particles of dust over the atmosphere to make it colder everywhere. But especially there, so very cold, like white spitfire.

His cheeks burn a bright pink from embarrassment.

Electricity has returned for the most part, but the need to upgrade and reconstruct a great majority of the leveled energy plants have forced his countrymen turn to natural gas, which is easier to ship from nations willing to give a different kind of aid. But even the shipments of natural gas have become a problem.

They're very scarce.

With the United Kingdom experiencing devolution, what few supplies had been adequately concentrated in government hands before now have to be equally divided into four parts, meaning that many leveled and unpopulated nations have equal access, if not more, to natural gas supplies than people in highly concentrated places, many of which are in England.

Even with rationing, the majority of supplies have been released to the public, making a great majority of government institutions—especially orphanages—suffer through the cold.

England had thought it was a good idea to let grown men that had pledged to protect their country through the ballot, albeit with fickle spirits, suffer through the cold. He had never thought of the children. Now that he had a large group of children with him, some of who would not stop crying, and not enough blankets for everyone, he felt almost ashamed that his biggest concern wasn't that he could not procure more heat, but having to tell that to a nation like Italy.

"Not to worry, cher Italy. Big brother France and the très beau Matthieu have it all under control," France gives them both an amused wink, beginning to round up the children away from the food and over towards Matthew, who stuffs them into tiny coats, gloves, and snow boots.

"W—what are you doing?" England panics, trying to rush towards the children to usher them back towards the warmth, but Matthew's sympathetic smile stops him.

"You know," he clears his throat and England sobers, "they'll be just as cold in here as outside, England. They might as well forget about it outside with the snow and Kumajiro. All of you just worry about the food."

"Alors, once you're done, keep the stoves open. It'll add some more heat. À bientôt!" France adds with a flourish, opening the door and hauling himself out, only to be stopped by the sight of a surprisingly ashy and blue America. "Oh mon dieu! Amérique!" he pulls the nation in, closing the door with a loud slam.

America's teeth clatter during his attempts at a smile. "H—he—hello, e—eve—everybody! S—San—Santa i—is her—here!" he begins to unzip his thick red marshmallow coat, the gold glimmer of the rented Santa suit's belt twinkling curiously at the cheering children. "L—let's o—open some pr—presents!"

England huffs, taking long strides over to America, who looks particularly pale. "We'll open presents later," he purses his lips in a frown, "If we can keep you from turning purple, that is; now, come over here, and stand by the stove in the kitchen."

"Soyez gentille with him, Angleterre!" France chuckles, suggestion sprinkled all over his tone, and America almost likes it. He gives England a half-hearted smile, which quickly fades when he hears the rest of France's statement: "The cher garcon is just trying to show you he can provide for 'ou et les enfants… failing, mais, don't they say it is the thought that counts?"

"At this rate, he'll only prove that he can make an adequate Popsicle. Now stop fussing, you."

"B—Bu—but England," America whines, though resists little once England's swift fingers zip up his jacket and pull him closer to the comforting warmth of the kitchen, where North Italy is at the ready to welcome them with a happy smile and a lot of 've' here and 've' there. "Oh, feels lots nicer here," he eases into a chair, beaming up at the English nation. After a few seconds of silence, he garners enough courage to look at England—truly look at him, tall and slim and still beautiful, in a rugged way that makes America picture an ancient oak. "You're looking good, Artie."

"Better than you, it seems," England retorts, shrugging as he pulls out a chair next to America.

"That's all you got to say to me? – I haven't seen you for weeks. That's a lot of time." America draws circles over the chipped table next to him, his fingers feeling the roughness of the wood and its stitches.

"It hasn't been that long."

"It has to me," the younger of the two whispers, kicking the bag of presents with a tap from his heel.

"Clingy git," England scoffs, looking away, but the blush over his cheeks betrays the thumpity-thump-thump of his heart, and the way blood is rushing through his ears, making him hear drums everywhere. He's flattered. America can tell.

The little surreptitious smile North Italy gives them as he slides in between them to set two mugs of hot chocolate on the table only makes England cross his arms and slide down the chair.

"Lookie that, Artie," America laughs, grabbing the mug immediately and beginning to chug it down, "it's hot chocolate!"

England sighs, his features easing into a mild sign of caring—eyes all bright, lips a pretty pink, so curved, so perfect and plump. "Yes, well, stop chugging, America, and come closer. You've a very prominent chocolate mustache, not becoming at all for a Santa."

In his hand, England cradles a napkin. He inches the tip closer to America's top lip, when the other interrupts, perhaps in the innocent way he's so desperate to close the gap between them, so desperate for air. "You know, chocolate gives you endorphins, which sort'a makes ya feel like you're in love!"

The napkin is quickly retrieved. England stares down at his mug, fingers itching to touch the cool china, and yet, so afraid, very afraid. England can't love America. But for every smile and twinkle in Alfred's blue eyes, Arthur feels a tremor stir in his body. And his body aches—not for lack of warmth, but because he's being consumed. Damn endorphins.

"Ve~ Germany, Germany," North Italy tugs at the blonde nation's arm and, perhaps having overheard America, lifts his own mug of hot chocolate to Germany's lips.

"Damn potato bastard," South Italy growls under his breath, turning to the two English-speaking nations, "and what about you two pair of idiots? Are you going to help, or are you just going to sit there and watch as we do all the work?"

England smiles, "I'm not allowed to cook, remember?"

America catches the amused twinkle in England's eye. "Ah, yeah, still kinda fighting back frostbite," he excuses himself, showing his ashy fingers.

Germany's response is a grunt. He drinks, swiftly, quickly, just a few sips, maybe just to please North Italy, and along the way—maybe France _is _rubbing off on him—he clears his throat. "Vhat you need to do," he tinkers with a potato, "is 'ave someone sit on your hands."

"W—what?" South Italy's enraged. "Don't look at me, imperialistic asshole!"

North Italy stares at England, "England will do it, ve? England won't let America suffer through frostbite, right England? You'll sit on his hands, ve?"

"I—I…"

"C'me on, Arie. I'm kinda starting to lose all feeling on 'em."

"G—git, how… I…"

America pats his lap with a smirk, setting his hands flat over his thighs, "I promise I won't comment on how your old man ass is probably beginning to sag, Artie…"

"I beg your pardon! – My arse is in fine shape, thank you."

"Oh yeah? Well, let's see it, then. Prop it here."

"Germany, Germany! My ass isn't sagging, is it?" – North Italy sounds so panicked that everyone stops everything they're doing. Even England stops breathing, perhaps finally becoming aware that not only has he moved, but he's inched to the edge of his seat. "Ve, Germany? You're all silent!"

"And red," America points out, chuckling, "Very red."

But he can't keep laughing for long. His fingers are beginning to curl into fists, the burning ache of cold too hard to shake spreading over his fingers like red ants nipping at his skin. England doesn't miss the grimace.

And then, he feels a weight on his hands.

He smiles, beaming at England, "my hero."

"Oh hush you," he's blushing maroon now, and America can't help but think of how cute he looks, "I'm o—only doing this because I'd hate to have to explain to the United Nations how the United States of America lost his fingers. In my home."

"Uh-huh, sure, Artie," America squeezes, feeling the curve of skin under thin tan slacks, along with the way England jolts. He's tempted to press a kiss to the small of England's neck, but he restraints himself.

"Oi!"

"You're right," America grins, "it's a fine ass, alright."

In the background, America can hear North Italy still nagging Germany over the state of his behind. He can hear South Italy curse, threatening to stuff them both with carrots—detailing rather graphically things he'd do with carrots in a way that makes America thinks he's about to become very nauseous, or at least avoid carrots all evening. But none of that is half as important as the little voice in his head telling him that this could be his. This could be his Christmas with England.

"Are your fingers better under there?"

"Hmm. Yeah. They're having a blast under here. Best source of warmth they've ever had."

"Git."

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_ (Oh, yes, this could all be yours._

America is becoming fond of the little voice now and the way that in teasing tilts and lilts it explains in detail his future.

And then, just as England is easing into him, and he's finally garnered enough courage to pepper a few kisses onto the other's neck, the voice turns ashy, bitter, such a tiny whisper. But it's present and it curls around his mind, squeezing, until he feels a snap. It's a flash of white—fast, quick, over, but he's left exhausted and panting:

_Not an accident.)_

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"America?" England turns to face the blonde nation, who simply gulps, giving him a disturbed smile. "What is it?"

"M—my fingers, they're fine now."

"You look—"

"They're fine now."

England shifts, moving slowly, cautiously, almost afraid, "Alright. Yes, very well." He clears his throat, trying to remain dignified, "Shall we see if the children have returned? I'm sure they'd love to open presents now."

And he nods: for lack of a better plan, in the hope that children's chirping voices will quell the wilting one in his mind.

* * *

><p>"I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask, 'Mother, what was war?'"<p>

-Eve Merriam

* * *

><p>The two Italy brothers—always so helpful, England thought with sarcasm—had come to visit him with the excuse that 'Ve, England, we're here to save the children!' and 'Don't think this means we care about you, imperialistic bastard. We just don't want you to poison the children with your poisonous food!'<p>

Along with them, they had brought France, who had brought Canada. And France had brought Germany, of course. Two unexpected guests considering that only months ago, they had been enemies in a ruthless war of economic sanctions, military tactics, and espionage. But England could deal with all of them; he was grateful to and for all of them. No one, though, had mentioned America would come. He hadn't expected the hegemon to make an appearance; a part of him was beginning to dread that America had bothered.

"But England!" America whines, tugging at his arm as he drags behind him a large laundry bag doubling as a Santa Claus knapsack. As he walks, the younger, eager nation pulls at his cotton beard, trying to catch up to the older nation, who simply continues handing out candy canes and searching through the bag for a lame plushie or two, and maybe some other toy that reminds America more of the times before video games, and even board games.

"But England, what, America?" England huffs, cheeks bright red as he pulls the bag from the other's arm, pulling from it a rag doll to give to a little girl with eyes gray, like ashes—no, maybe salt.

"Those are the lame toys!"

"These," England pauses, picking a teddy bear from the pile, "are the only appropriate toys you brought with you."

There's an uncomfortable pause. "It was a water gun for god's sake!"

"You didn't just bring water guns. What of the video games, America?"

America pouts, "They have game consoles here. I've seen 'em."

"No, America, I'm not talking about the concept of games, but the subject matter of the particular games you chose to bring. Elements of War? Millennium Empire 3000? Truly, America, one would think the war never happened in your mind."

"They're just games, England," America pushes forward, grabbing hold of a water gun and handing it to a child nearby, whose grabby hands are only the initial sign of his obvious enchantment with the toy.

England intercepts the present, throwing it back into the bag.

France is sneezing in the corner of the room; Germany, ever a "doting" political-husband, stands by him, trying to drape more blankets over him, even as he grumbles out an _I-told-you-so_, because he did tell France to cover up, but the moronic idiot of a nation had chosen to ignore him. Italy stands by Germany, not once making a comment over the way Germany is now taking off his coat, draping it over France and the way the _frog_is so adequately letting himself be pampered, even stopping to fix Germany's lapels in thanks.

"—So like I was—England, yo, you listening to me? Huh? What are you—" America turns, slowly, and his eyes fall on the four nations in the corner of the room. Canada and France are an item, everyone knows it. So are Germany and Italy. But France and Germany are together. America will never understand. He turns to look at England, who is sighing now, no longer giving out presents. "England…"

"I'd rather not fight with you tonight, America."

America nods, humming his approval. "I still don't see what the problem is."

"That's the problem, America, the fact that you don't," there's a knot in his throat that he's trying to ease, but it grows tighter and thicker, until he can't breathe and his eyes begin to water, "You know, when I look at these kids, I think about all the things their parents probably wanted for them. And those are things I cannot give them. I think about all the things I can control, all the ways in which I might somehow honor their parents."

"England…"

"I have a feeling, America, that if their parents were alive, they would have never let their children touch a gun, not even a toy one, not even a water gun. They would have loved these children, and would have shielded them from the cruelty of the world, from any image that might even belie that the world is beautiful…"

America looks down at the video games in his bag. His country hasn't been affected like many other countries, but he slowly begins to understand. Or at least he pretends to because he can tell it is important to England, and for that reason alone, it will be important to him.

"…I don't expect you to understand America, but I expect you to respect it. When you are here, do not talk to me of war, invasions, nothing in relation to such savagery, understood?"

The taller nation flinches.

"But, see, I actually…"

"_Understood_?"

He bites his bottom lip, nodding, "Yeah, I got it."

And England smiles, nudging him with his elbow, "good; now, why don't we finish handing these out and then go have a cupa?"

"I hate tea."

"Then you can have hot chocolate."

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America watches England giving out the last of the toys that evening; he watches him joke with the other nations in the room; he watches, and watches, until he grows dizzy with nerves, and needs some fresh air. He walks out, feeling the chilly evening air, and as he sits outside, Kumajiro nuzzles his hand, asking for pets.

"You like the cold, huh?"

The animal simply replies by pushing his snout harder against the American's hand.

"Yeah," America shivers, "I'm, uh, still trying to get used to it—I'm not used to being as cold on the inside as I am on the outside."

**TBC**


	3. Interlude I

**Author ****Note ****(long):** Sigh. The site decided to do something to this chapter to make it not view-able. So I re-uploaded. Hopefully it will work. Thank you to those that have commented on the last chapters. I am glad to see many of you are enjoying the story, and I hope you will continue to enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. As always, your comments are loved. Seriously, they are.

So, I've decided to change the format a bit. Every two chapters there will be an interlude. As we saw in the last chapters (prologue and chapter 1) this story will always in some way or another touch on issues related to war, reconstruction, post-war reparations, etc. However, because this story itself is proving rather long, and because some issues – development, marginalization, promoting economic growth, treaties, etc—really deserve a bit more background, I decided interludes could work rather nicely. This one is trying to look a bit at radiation sickness.

While this Interlude has followed the natural progression of the timeline, not all Interludes will be like this (at least never this long again...) – some will be flashbacks touching on what happened during the war, while others might just be very short and not formatted like the one below. So, please, always look at the date. Speaking of dates, and timing, I'm afraid I'm asking you to suspend belief a lot here. Thanks in advanced for coming along for the ride.

**As always, should there ever be any concerns over the topics in this piece, I'm more than happy to discuss and address things civilly. If you'd ever just like to casually discuss the topics, I'm always open for conversation, too. However, I'm no expert on nuclear power in the UK, much less nuclear detonation. And, sadly, the commissioned report by the UK won't be released for a bit still.** **I'm** **also not a physics major. But I'm always happy to hear from either, and I promise to be wholly humbled by any information sent my way.** ^^

Finally, do not be tricked by the beginning. There is no smut this chapter.

**Interlude I – Radiation Sickness**

"There are stars in your dark side  
>brighter than the sun.<br>Promise me, if you ever catch your breath  
>you will throw it back out to sea immediately."<p>

**Andrea Gibson**

January 1st, 2091 at 20:05:31

"…Bed," Arthur's words were mangled, a mess of breaths and chapped whispers against Alfred's plump pink lips. He could feel the way calloused fingers dug into the sides of his hips, desperate to bring him closer. "Bed," he panted, trying to distance himself from Alfred as they stood by the foot of the stairs, just staring at each other.

The American's chest heaved with an agitated rise and fall as he tried to push his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose.

To Alfred, the bed was a world away, especially with the stairs in the way. He could see plenty of open space on the floor, on tables, against walls, so much that he almost questioned why beds were invented in the first place: probably so adorable Brits could enforce their _first __time __sex __is __properly __done __on __a __bed_ rule. And, surely, to drive heroic Americans mad with a bad case of blue-balls.

All green eyes could see, though, was the way in which the American's tousled hair worked as a testament to the frantic snogging session they'd just finished on his sofa.

Arthur scanned Alfred's face, surprised to see the way blue eyes laid half-mast with tenderness. It was under the soft lightning of candles—the ones used to save energy at night—that the blush on Alfred's cheeks bean to rival the red of his lips, the lingering string of saliva twinkling with want. And who was Arthur to deny it?—He cupped Alfred's face, feeling stuck between that place where lucidity was hyper-ingrained into his brain and the edge of that world where everything was a relative endless blur. Alfred threw his arms around the other's waist.

"Oh to hell with it…" Arthur cursed, pressing heated kisses all alongside Alfred's strong jaw, feeling the flexing of the slack muscles as trickling moans flickered through his ears.

Alfred barely had time to react when Arthur jumped him—legs a tangled knot around his hips, already grinding expertly against him, forcing him to let out a moan of surprise.

"Hey, hey, I-I thought you said _bed_…" he forces out between lip pecks and neck licks, not even sure how he can be so lucid after downing half a bottle of scotch, several cups of mulled wine, and a few shots of vodka, especially with Arthur keening in his ear the secrets of his desperation.

"Bloody hell," Arthur replies, gasping for air, "just, just fuck—just fuck me against the railing. Bend me on all fours on the steps… tie me to the damned balusters, if you want. Just—just do me already." He bucks his hips, fingers splayed over Alfred's shoulders as he throws his head back at the feel of friction. "I don't care anymore."

There's a fleeting sense of panic that chokes Alfred when he feels the misstep and they come crashing to the floor. His back hits the edges of the steps, sending him jolting and gasping for breath inside Arthur's mouth, rather painfully, though Arthur's nimble fingers continue to scratch at the buttons of his shirt. But slowly there's recognition in Arthur's eyes, and he crawls away to the side, cradling Alfred's head in his arms.

(The fall has sobered him.

And if Alfred was ever afraid, then he is then. Afraid he's ruined his chances.)

"Oh, poppet, I'm sorry," he manages to squeeze through his heaves, staring down at Alfred with so much love that a few tears seem to be pooling near the corners of his eyes. "That… you…"

Alfred knows Arthur isn't crying—surely even though intoxicated, Arthur would need far more alcohol in his system to send him into fits of tears. But he understands, because he can feel the droplets crowding together near the tips of his lashes. They've barely given themselves time to breathe, much less feel each other. And it is in the ridiculousness of the moment that the last remaining wall between them comes crashing down with a hammer of laughter.

Arthur presses both his palms tight over his lips, but the choked spasms give him away. Alfred laughs alongside him, pulling his hands away to watch the way in which his love brightens, glowing under the candles.

"Oh poppet, I'm sorry," Arthur continues, wiping at his eyes with balled fists. His face and neck red as he tries to reel in his chuckles, "It's not… I know it's not funny, but…"

Only it is.— Alfred smiles. He winces when he first brings his hand up to cup the back of Arthur's head, hoping to bring him closer to steal a kiss, because the pain in his back is killing him, perhaps more than the wilting desire beginning to spark once again in his loins. Instead, though, he allows his fingers to linger in the feel of the other's hair, just combing through the soft strands. Arthur smiles down at him, curtailing his laughter for just enough time to lean down and press a chaste kiss over Alfred's lips.

"I love ya, Artie."

Blue eyes twinkle with such honesty that Arthur can feel his stomach churning, and the vacant hole left behind from months of stress—the result of reconstruction and reparations—is filled with a flame of warmth that encases him completely. It is _in_ that gap of vulnerability he can admit he is in love. He twines his fingers with those of Alfred, pressing his hand tighter against the back of his skull.

"Love you, too, Alfred."

Alfred stirs, beginning to sit up, wanting to press their foreheads close. Together, they remove Alfred's hand, still smiling at each other.

When they look down, though, they panic. Arthur, perhaps, most of all, and as he watches the Brit, Alfred can feel the words piling in his throat, edging in the curl of his tongue, but he can't bring himself to force them out. So Arthur does, for them both.

"Y—You… you damned git!"

(Later, Arthur would wonder why he lashed out against Alfred when he had most wanted to wrap himself around the American and sob. Little would he understand the mechanisms of his mind, the fear curling around his stomach, and the eternal desire to blame—because even if he never admitted it, as much as Arthur loved Alfred, the United Kingdom hated America, despised it for _his_ own fate, and despised it for _its_ destiny.)

It took Alfred a moment to register that the insult was hurled at him.

"Woah, but I… I didn't pull or anything. I…"

Arthur slides down the steps during his stumble to reach the top. He scrapes his knees, but he's in too much of a hurry to care, much less notice. Alfred scrambles behind him, eyes wide like saucers once they settle on the clear bald-spot left on the back of Arthur's head.

The missing, treacherous strands of gold remain wrapped in his shaking hands.

By the time he reaches the bathroom, he finds Arthur a mess of shakes. His lips quake as he tries to hold himself together, staring with fearful eyes at the other strands of hair now lining the sink. It's sudden, rapid, and Alfred isn't sure what to do except try to hold Arthur, though he is pushed away.

"_What __did __you __do_?"

"I—Me…?" Alfred bites his bottom lip, the question thrown too fast for him to properly respond. For a second, his mind is destabilized, reeling with the memories of his wretched guilt and the tiny voice shouts like a mantra: _notanaccident-notanaccident-notanaccident__._ It murmurs it faster than Alfred's brain can process the words and disambiguate them, much less make sense of them in the haze of love and want and heat that had engulfed him not so long ago when Arthur had whispered his name in his ear: _OhAlfredOhAlfred:_what had he done?

"Nothing! I—I didn't do anything!" he explains, trying to exit the bathroom.

Not measuring his distance from the door, he crashes into the frame, cursing silently.

"I wasn't like this before!" Arthur directs the accusation in blind rage and anguish, too tired and mildly intoxicated to hold himself back. He's not really sure if he means the _before_ to speak of times before the war, before the detonation of the bomb, or if perhaps he means merely an hour ago—but he's not so petty, not so foolish as to pretend it's the later, and the fire in his eyes betrays him. And he's ashamed, almost as much as he is afraid: Alfred hadn't meant to bomb him; Alfred had saved him, stopped the war even. It'd all been an accident—a terrible accident, a miscalculation. Alfred had said so himself.

"Well, it wasn't me, alright?—Maybe it's the stupid radiation finally eating at ya since you've grown so weak and lost all that weight! Ever think of that?"

Alfred wants to take it back the moment it curls at the tip of his tongue and is released like a heavy projectile. Aren't there many things he wishes he could take back? But he won't be held responsible. He won't. So, instead, he looks away with a pout.

He can feel more than hear the way in which Arthur's breathe hitches. He can hear more than see the way the English nation turns to slam his hands on the sink, desperate.

(_Not __an __accident. __Not __an __ACCIDENT. __NOT __AN __ACCIDENT._

The little voice whispers faster, stronger, louder, until Alfred can feel a buzzing zoom in his ears and lulling his brain. The sound reminds him of an engine's pistons, just slamming into him, heavy and with constant rhythm—gaining momentum.)

Arthur sniffs, gulping before blinking a few times. He looks down at the sink, unable to make sense of the pieces of hair that now cover the marble, almost as if it had snowed, perhaps rained from his head. His knuckles turn white as he clutches at the edges of the sink.

"Get out," he whispers.

"Huh?" the American jumps, "Artie, I…"

"I said out, Alfred," he stresses again. "I don't want you here."

Alfred shakes his head, "No. I'm not gonna just leave ya like this."

Expectations swim fluidly through the tension in the room. It's amazing to feel them wading so calmly through the thickness in the air. Alfred almost expects that soon he will hear thunder from the Brit's lips, enough to match the lightning in Arthur's eyes, maybe enough to topple him away.

However, the words sober Arthur instead. And he sniffles, shoulders caved forward as he stares at the ground. "Just leave me alone, _America_. I don't need you to play hero."

"I'm not," Alfred sighs, pulling Arthur into a hug, even as the question remains huddle between them like a child—a child now born from doubt. What did heroes ever do for anyone they loved? Wasn't there some pattern that all heroes experience loss? "I'm not here 'cause I'm a hero," he repeats, more for himself than for Arthur's benefit, perhaps. And he callously lets himself be comforted by the warmth of the other's body as it molds into his. "I'm here because I love you, England…"

Arthur is tempted to correct Alfred, but he just hides his face in the other's chest before pressing his lips to the pulse on the other's neck. He wraps his arms tight around Alfred, fingers digging into broad shoulders.

_Thrumming cities underneath iridescent blue skies – large and tiny hubs of wealth fed by the pumping of money into banks and markets and stores, and people, oh, there's people, so many, many people and children and buildings and … and everything that is beautiful and powerful. _

_And eternal in the blinking radiance of industrialization._

He can see it so clearly with his eyes closed. And for a moment, trapped in the love Arthur feels for Alfred, and perhaps the jealousy England feels over America, he whimpers against the beat, "So beautiful."

Alfred shivers – the bitterness too sweet even for his palate.

**.**

January 1st, 2091 at 23:14:03

America had seldom thought of radiation sickness.

England had held up well with his bruises and his anger, the worst of which had been felt the first two months after the detonation of the bomb, when several small children contracted thyroid cancer from the high levels of iodine radiation secreted into the atmosphere. Unfortunate changes had made England's orphans his main demographic staple, leading to months of England coughing up blood into a handkerchief as he waddled through rubble alongside specialized UN units, just trying to keep a perked ear ready for any survivors.

Looking down at England now, though, America wondered how he'd never even mildly considered the consequences. He combed through England's rebellious hair, comfortable with the island nation's head perched on his lap. Perhaps it was because he'd only seen England a month after he'd first found the nation dying in between the rubble of war.

But, America had remembered Japan those early months. Somehow, perhaps hopeful wishing on his part, he'd inherently expected that because England hadn't been directly hit – Wales had – that he was better off, even if the United Kingdom at large was suffering the consequences and slamming his body with the aftershocks. And yet, everyone had had such high hopes for England.

The typical patterns had appeared on his skin in the form of a transient and inconsistent redness that was accompanied by incomparable itchiness. All was carefully clothed beneath the thick fabric of his uniform. It was under such a veil that Arthur had been safe – from pity, from judgment. But Alfred had known better. And it was on a particular cold evening that he'd cradled England's fainted body and attained Japan's help to peel the same clothes off of the nation's feverish body. Makeshift bandages had covered intense ulcerations, the bleeding blisters of irradiated skin scarring over skin pigmentation and tissue.

(_"Don't look at me,"_ _England had whispered, shamefully hiding beneath blankets as Japan dabbed at the sweat pooling near his brow._

_America faltered, gulping hard as he handed the other nation a cup of water. "Here, babe, drink this."_

_"I know, I know I'm disgusting, America. You _don't_ have to look at me."_

_"No, no, you're not." America shook his head, taking in the sight of dimming green eyes. "England, you're not…"_

_But America could barely hide the curl of his stomach as he gagged at the sight of an open welt melting at a damaged sweat gland. And still he stayed, staring wide-eyed and with flaring nostrils as the blood coiled and hardened, leaving behind a painful scar._

_Japan smiled, almost a wince. "You're a strong nation, England-san. I expect full-recovery."_)

But at least that had been the worst.

**.**

January 2nd, 2091 at 00:03:45

"Alfred?" Arthur's voice had been haggard, perhaps the remains of his strength, which he then put to better use by lifting his head from the American's lap.

Alfred seemed to have fallen fast asleep. Arthur hadn't the heart to wake him, so he crawled away from his lover's body, grabbing a nearby blanket and throwing it over him. The weakness in his arms alerted him to the dizzying reality of his situation. Carefully, he situated himself by Alfred, letting his head loll back until it hit a propped pillow. His eyes followed the cracks on the ceiling.

He'd always known what was coming. After all, he'd never been much of a romantic, much less an optimist. And he'd seen enough accidents, and experienced some himself to understand the consequences of radiation.

The first two months after the detonation, he thought he'd experienced the worst. When his skin had returned to normal, absorbed the burns in the elasticity of his privilege as a nation, he'd notably remembered Chernobyl – there, skin irradiated with high energy beta particles had healed, only to be followed by the collapse of the dermal vascular system after two months. He'd seen the cases. His best and brightest had recreated the results in Oxford with a pig as a test subject. And for weeks and months he'd lain awake at night and shivered whenever any nation or man or woman dared to press a hand against his shoulder or arm, almost waiting for the loss of the full thickness of the exposed skin once covered with callous ulcerations.

And Chernobyl had stayed in his mind, soon to be joined by Japan. Because England knew the detonation of the bomb alone had not caused his body to burst into aches and splinters. He knew it'd been the nuclear power plants, almost instantly – the hidden ones, the ones he'd been most proud of, and the ones he'd once thought or hoped would have died out in the scrutiny of public safety…

He knew. And yet he couldn't bring himself to grab for the phone to check.

**.**

January 2nd, 2091 at 00: 40: 45

America woke up alone.

He woke to the sound of rattling china cup and he looked up, only to find England sitting by the table near his window with several papers surrounding him. He took off his glasses, rubbing at his bleary eyes until he could bring England back into focus.

"England?"

"_It was on October 2010 that the former United Kingdom first decided it was time for the construction of a new set of nuclear power plants_…"

England's back was to the television. But America's eyes gravitated to it almost immediately. And he remembered bringing it up to the room, setting it on the dresser, all with the excuse that England should rest and not make efforts to reach the television in his living room just to keep up with the news. The American blinked, surprised that the television was still there – right where he'd left it.

"Turn it off," England ordered, shaking fingers spread over a manila folder.

America nodded, crawling off the bed to grab for the remote. But he refrained. His lips set into a thin line, making the pink almost invisible to England's blurred vision.

"_… Scottish Government refused, and with the backing of its parliament made it clear that no new nuclear __power plants would be stationed in Scotland. Only after the tragedy of the Fukushima I Nuclear Power Plant following the Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami of 2011 did the government of the United Kingdom reconsider plans to build eight new stations. However, as the disaster had not yielded any observable deaths, within several months and with the support of the International Atomic Energy Agency, construction resumed on schedule. A report commissioned by the Prime Minister followed, detailing lessons the United Kingdom could learn from the Japanese tragedy._"

"This is a documentary, right?" Alfred turned to England, voice thinned by worry. "This isn't… because, you know, that'd be illegal, Arthur. UNIMUK would've never allowed it. I mean, it would've been total madness with the instability and…"

"I had no choice," he confessed, "The shortage of energy was so vast. Most of our energy plants had been leveled. We'd had no accidents since the mid-1990s. We'd done everything right."

"_Against the advice of the IAEA, it was these power plants that were part of a rogue operation that is today—_"

America pressed the button of the remote, throwing the contraption over his shoulder. It slammed against the wall, making England wince and tremor all at once.

"You fucking turned on your _old_ nuclear plants?" he slammed both hands on the round table, chest heaving as he neared his companion's face. "England, England! The fuck where you thinking just… just… what were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that we'd done everything right." His voice was small, but crisp as he flipped through more pages – pages full of words and numbers and facts America would never know, much less understand. Statistics and people and cities. So much that was a part of him. "We'd been so good about everything. When the first plants were leveled, we flew helicopters over the reactors and dropped neutron-absorbing materials into the core. I… I watched all those men die in my hospitals weeks later. And yet their courageous sacrifices saved countless lives. There'd never been a danger of meltdown in my mind."

America nodded. "You did a very good job. No one's denying that, Artie. But _this_ was still stupid. Just so fucking stupid. I just, I can't even. Why? I just, I want to know, understand…"

England stared down at his white knuckles. His voice remained even, almost informational. He watched through curved lashed as America grabbed a seat, pulling it out to plant himself on it.

The silence remained thick. So thick he could barely breathe.

"Part of the reactors in Chernobyl had graphite and even pieces of raw plutonium and uranium, all of which were spat out of the reactor during reaction. Graphite is flammable. We'd learned _that_ much. That's why the reactor core burned for such a long time, wasn't it, America?" He looked up, careful in his movements, "_You_ know better, don't you?"

"I never said that," America leaned back, "We all know what happened at Chernobyl, England. But this isn't Chernobyl. This is… this is…" He chewed on the inside of his cheek, spitting out the words in his frustration. "I don't even know what this is yet. What is this, huh? Is this _London_? Are we talking about _Oxford_?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur scoffed. "I'd never put a nuclear power plant in Oxford. The closest would've been in Didcot. And they refused."

"Smart of them for sure. So what is this, then?"

"It's. It's not fair. That's what this is. _None_ of Chernobyl's four reactors had containment structures like _ours_ do. We'd done **everything** so well. The leveled plants had held up. Everything was _fine_. I thought," England defended his position through barred teeth and angry fists, "I thought we'd done everything so well that—that _why __not_? I mean, there was so little to lose…"

America blinked.

"So little…"

"How many are we talking about?"

"Two. Maybe three. I'm not so irresponsible as to have risked much more than that, America. It is _my_ life, too. You should know that best."

America huffed, rolling his eyes, "I'm asking how many burst, England."

"And that's the answer. Possibly two. Maybe all three."

"_All_ of them? All of them, he says all smooth like it's no big fucking deal. Every single one? – Are you sure?"

"I've yet to call, but…" England nodded, "I'd say every single one. I certainly feel miserable enough."

**.**

January 2nd, 2091 at 04:02:59

"I remember the poor Chernobyl liquidators. Those poor men. They sometimes worked in levels of radiation that exceeded 1,000 to 15,000 Roentgens per hour. Most of them died within days. Those exposed to lesser doses died of cancer years later, I think." England sighed, easing closer to America on the bed. He pressed his cheek against the other's thigh, taking in the smell of pressed blue-jeans. His index finger drew circles on the inside of the American's leg, feeling the muscles flex underneath. "How long do you think I have?"

America slammed the bottle of wine on the bed. England stared through the fogged dark glass, watching the innards slosh around like waves of red. "Don't. Don't say such bull," America whined, voice rough and throaty in his drunken slur. But England knew better – his companion was hardly tipsy. "More hit you from the missile. More hit Japan _years_ ago. He's fine. You're going to be fine. You _were_ fine. You'll be fine again. We'll _both_ be fine. Yeah, we'll be fine." America chuckled, shaking his head. The buzz of the alcohol in his system was beginning to take effect with dizzying speed. "We'll be fine together. And then we'll finally fuck. And be fine after, too."

England slapped at the other's stomach. "America!"

"Sorry," the younger of the two replied rather sheepishly, embarrassed by his own boldness. "You gotta understand how I feel, too, England."

"I'm the one dying," he coughed, fingers reaching for the bottle of wine, "You get some sympathy. However, I expect a monopoly on compassion tonight. And that _hardly_ involves you making jokes over how upset you are my current situation chose tonight of _all_ nights to cockblock you. Now hand over that bottle, love."

"You've got water over there. Drink that. You know alcohol would only work to dehydrate you."

"America. I'm serious. Now hand it over. I'm out of water anyway. Out of painkillers, too."

"And you're not high?"

"It's numbed the pain a bit. But I'm beginning to feel that horrible rash. Remember that disgusting thing? – Don't make that face. I'm talking about the itchy – Oh, never mind, keep the bottle. My stomach's in knots now. I'm going to be ill."

"Nausea kicked in?"

England nodded, crawling off the bed. "T—this, this is rather aggressive."

"I'll carry you. Just. Just give me a moment. I'll… give me a moment. My head's spinning. Damn it. Why. Just a moment. I said hold a darned moment, England."

"I'm holding as much as I can, git," England pursed his lips together in annoyance. His body felt the first tremor of a spasm, which sent him lurching forward with hands over his mouth. Soon, he felt a pair of strong arms encase his legs, bringing him into a tight embrace as he was carried towards the bathroom. "More than nausea, I think."

"It'll be the same for probably the first 48 hours. At least your body was still strong enough to hold it," America whispered, carefully helping his companion through tumbles and setting him on the ground before the toilet. "You're still a bit shaky. I'm more worried about that. Breathe through your nose."

The sounds of wretched gagging were heard around the room. America eased to the floor, still drawing soothing circles over England's back. The smell cloyed near his nose, grabbing on and refusing to let go, and still he stayed, trying to ease the jolting of skin and muscles and nerves as England released the toilet bowl and tried to clean his mouth with the back of his hand. America stumbled to get up, making a grab for a nearby towel.

He wet the tip. Then handed it to the Englishman, watching carefully the way calloused, long, delicate fingers wrapped around the cloth.

Green met blue in a split second of recognition.

"Stop studying me." England dabbed at his lips gently, making sure to scrub at the corners of his mouth before staggering to stand. He elbowed America away from his sink, grabbing for his toothbrush. "I'm experiencing chills. _From __fever_, git. Has my evening's wit not proven that I am _not_ experiencing any failure in my cognitive nervous system?"

America shook his head. "You're having trouble walking. This is hitting you really quickly." He turned on his heel, "I'm going to get more wine. And food. I think you're going to need it soon. Think you can still stomach some rice or bread or cereals, maybe?"

"I don't know. You're the expert here. Can I?"

"Yeah." Blue eyes dimmed. "I mean, I was never, you know. I mean, I nuked myself for testing purposes but never like this. So, my experience tells me that nausea has hit. Next should come some bouts of diarrhea, so we want to at least line your stomach a bit and get more liquids into your system. Think you can drink some juice instead of tea for a change?"

England smiled, amused. "So domestic. Yes. I'll drink more of your bloody water, Doctor America. Afraid there's no juice in my kitchen."

There was a moment of loss between them—the recognition gone once England's knees almost bucked. And they stared at each other, trying to engrave faces and sights and colors and smells and sounds: all easily lost in the blur of the moment, in the fear of the unknown. And England turned away, prepping to brush his teeth.

"Go ahead." His voice cracked, but he carried on, smoothly turning on the faucet, "I'll be fine for a few minutes, Al."

"You—you promise?"

"I promise."

**.**

January 2nd, 2091 at 07: 00: 27

"It itches," Arthur complained, trying to keep a good-natured posture even as he tried to move away from Alfred, who seemed determined to keep covering him with blankets. "Stop. I'm warm."

"No, you're actually very cold to the touch. And this place is freezing," Alfred tucked Arthur's head under his chin, packing the shorter man in his arms, "It's called hypotension, babe. Don't argue. It explains the high fevers and dizziness. Your blood pressure is low."

He felt Arthur scoff, nostrils flaring. "I don't care. I'm itchy and hot."

"Arthur, _please_. Please, I love you. I—I love you, so just let me, okay? Let me. I can help. I swear I can..."

"Fine." The response was soft, uneven, but Alfred looked down when he felt a cold hand touch his warm cheek. "But I'm not inhaling any more sugar. Or water. I feel like I'm going to burst, Alfred."

"Tea, then?" blonde eyebrows furrowed as the American shifted on the bed, "I'll go make you a pot myself if needed. I just need to keep you hydrated and your electrolyte—"

"Don't." Arthur's hand splayed over Alfred's arm, keeping him in place. He snuggled closer to the American's chest, pressing his cheek as tight as possible over Alfred's heart. The beat pumped against his skin, jumping with each of his shakes. "Just. Stay here. I'm cold."

Alfred smiled, hand pressed tightly against the small of Arthur's back as he propped him up, "Yeah right. I think that's just an excuse to stay in my arms. If I recall, just five minutes ago you were complaining that you were warm. The tea will take a minute, Artie."

"Yes, well. It's called hypotension, love. Apparently my blood pressure is awful low, so don't argue and hold me."

"Will you drink the water?"

"Yes, I'll drink your bloody water. Now just hold me. Tighter."

With that, he made sure to press his lips to Alfred's neck, suckling on the taut pulse thrumming against his tongue. And for that one moment, he thought he could still taste life.


End file.
